


A Year of Six Months

by Copgirl1964



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Insecure Mycroft, M/M, Mycroft Holmes/ Original male Character - mentioned, Mystrade fluff, Physical Abuse, Sherlock meddling, Verbal Abuse, johnlock implied - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 00:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4325952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copgirl1964/pseuds/Copgirl1964
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gives his older brother a rather unusual gift for Christmas. It takes a few months until Mycroft finds out why Sherlock had chosen that particular present. At about the same time an ex-boyfriend of Mycroft shows up; a really nasty man. It takes a DI to put the ex into his rightful place. Mystrade fluff ensured.<br/>This story comes with artwork from the amazing Camillo1978. I had this idea a couple of months ago and decided to buy a commission. You'll find it at the appropriate place inside the story. My thanks go to Chasingriversong who kindly uploaded the picture and provided the hyperlink.</p><p>Also thanks to shjwst for her help and my wonderful Beta Jack63kids for proofing that story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Year of Six Months

**Author's Note:**

  * For [techomech](https://archiveofourown.org/users/techomech/gifts).



> This story was purchased by techomech at the Rupert Graves Birthday Auction. Initially the story was supposed to have a length of about 5.000 words. It turned out to have a bit over 7.500.  
> She wished for a nasty ex boyfriend, BAMF Greg Lestrade and some Mystrade fluff. I hope you like what I did with it.

December 2014

DI Gregory Lestrade checked very carefully to see if the coast was clear before he left his office to get a cup of coffee. He made it halfway to the small kitchen before a chorus of wolf whistles rung out, provided by three of his female colleagues who had discovered him sneaking through the corridor. Smiling meekly, he hurried to get his coffee and returned to the sanctuary of his office, where he was confronted with the sight of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. John was grinning but Sherlock was positively gloating, not having forgotten the day they had given him his deer-stalker.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” Greg asked, trying to ignore Sherlock's gleeful expression. 

“I require a calendar,” Sherlock told him.

“Very funny!” Greg slammed down his cup, sloshing the hot brew over one of the many files on his desk. His colourful curse impressed even John Watson, who handed the harassed looking DI a tissue to mitigate the damage.

“Seriously, Sherlock, why are you here?”

The consulting detective rolled his eyes dramatically. “I told you, I need a calendar.”

“Why would you need a calendar when you have John who keeps tabs on everything you think too insignificant to remember?”

“Oi, careful, mate,” John grumbled. “Sherlock really wants one of the calendars but they are all sold out.”

“And there is no need to get nasty just because you're sexually frustrated,” Sherlock added.

Greg sighed and rubbed his forehead.

The calendar Sherlock had requested, was part of a project the members of New Scotland Yard had initiated to raise funds for officers hurt in the line of duty. On one fateful day a calendar from the New York firefighters had made the rounds and on the following day the idea had been born that New Scotland Yard would publish a similar one.  
Each department had to provide a model and on Greg's day off CID had voted unanimously that DI Gregory Lestrade would be theirs. 

Twenty boxes arrived from the printer at the beginning of December and NSY was buzzing with anticipation because the photo shoot had been held in closed session. Greg had been very nervous when his team flicked through the calendar and the room had fallen completely silent once they had seen 'Mr June'. The silence had lasted a whole minute before cheers had erupted and Greg had been declared the pride of the CID.

The calendars had sold like hotcakes and now only the model's sample-copies were available. 

Greg had no idea what Sherlock could possibly want with the calendar but deciding he could at least make the most of it. 

“One-hundred quid and one of the calendars is yours,” Greg said, flashing Sherlock a smile.

The consulting detective blinked and turned to John. “John, you better examine him. He must have sustained serious brain-damage.” Turning his gaze back to Greg, Sherlock shook his head. “You can buy a calendar for £ 5 these days, Lestrade. I'm doing you a favour.”

Greg gave the young Holmes a bright toothy smile, put his feet up on his desk and crossed his arms, knowing that for once he was in a stronger position. 

Sherlock drove a hard bargain but in the end he paid £ 50 to a disgustingly smug looking DI.

 

June 2015

'Not again,' Mycroft Holmes thought, while he was in the process of waking up. He rubbed his eyes and peered at his watch. 1:46am. Clearly he had fallen asleep again while sitting at his desk. The government official rose to his feet and walked to the small en-suite of his office at the Diogenes Club. After splashing his face with a few handfuls of cold water he scrutinized his reflection in the mirror. He looked exhausted. Mycroft knew whose fault it was that he didn't sleep well but he didn't want to think about Jason Alexander, the man who had made his life unbearable so many years ago and now was back to turn it into hell all over again. 

Putting the sheaf of paper that had substituted for a pillow into a folder and looking around his office to check if everything was in order before he left, Mycroft's eyes fell on the calendar that hung in a corner. It was the 1st June for almost two hours now so he might as well turn to the next page.

He had been aghast when Sherlock had given him the calendar for Christmas. 21st century technology worked for both Holmes brothers quite well and the elder Holmes needed a calendar as much as his brother did; that was to say not at all. Since the last present Sherlock had given him had been a book about teenagers on a diet about thirty years ago, Mycroft humoured his sibling by hanging the calendar in his office at the Diogenes club where chances that anyone but him would see it were quite small. 

Apparently the calendar's topic was 'policemen with bare torsos'. He had asked Sherlock why he had chosen this present but his brother had never answered that question. Mycroft's theory was that his younger sibling wanted to show him the morons he had to deal with every other day. Since Sherlock had neither admitted nor denied that this indeed was the reason, Mycroft took a minute at the beginning of each month to deduce the policeman who was displayed. So far every single officer had been reasonably pleasing to the eye but none of them had been worth a second glance.

Expecting to see another barrel-chested man in his twenties he turned the page to the month of June. Mycroft's mouth fell open and a quiet “oh” escaped.

The picture showed DI Gregory Lestrade, who was sitting on a police-car's bonnet. Unlike the officers on the pages before the man still wore a shirt but it was unbuttoned and displayed enough of his chest that Mycroft needed to sit down to look at the photo properly. Mycroft applauded his decision because the smile of the silver-haired detective made his knees go blank and his mind go weak or something along those lines. 

He had known the inspector for years and fallen for the man pretty much the moment he had seen the video-feed of him wrapping Sherlock in a blanket and taking him home instead of locking him into a cell. From afar Mycroft had watched the DI getting divorced, pining for a while, going on a few dates with both men or women but that had stopped several month ago. Having not much experience when it came to relationships, Mycroft could only guess that after the unhappy ending of his marriage Gregory Lestrade was no longer interested in relationships. 

At least he now had this delightful picture to admire. Mycroft was not a man who gave in to folly easily but he went as far as running his hand over the paper, wondering what the supple skin on the man's chest would feel like to his fingertips. 

He could have spent the remainder of the night in quiet contemplation of the photo but exhaustion and a busy week ahead of him finally forced him out of his seat. While switching off the light he caught himself saying, “good night, Gregory!” although there was no-one around to hear his words.

* * *

Near the end of the month Mycroft was still as much enamoured with the picture of 'Mr. June' as at the moment he first had set eyes on it. The government official was glad that there were no cameras in his office because he would have been extremely embarrassed had anybody seen him behaving like a love-struck teenager, gazing at the calendar longingly and even caressing the photo with his fingertips every so often. 

It was a Friday afternoon when he was sitting in his office at the Diogenes Club, enjoying a cup of tea while gazing at the enticing picture like others would gaze at a beautiful landscape.

When he had drunk the last bit of his tea, he got up and walked over to the calendar. It was only a picture but he adored it as much as the handsome DI himself. Mycroft's smile was bitter-sweet while his eyes roamed from the mischievously twinkling brown eyes to the smooth chest and back up again. Anything more than a businesslike, however friendly, relationship with Gregory Lestrade clearly would never be more than a wonderful dream; as much as he coveted him. 

Outlining the inspector's features with gentle fingers once again, Mycroft was so enraptured that he failed to notice when the door of his office was opened. The man who silently stepped inside was two inches taller than Mycroft and of athletic built. He had green eyes, thick blond hair and fine facial features. He watched the owner of the office for a long moment before he spoke up.

"Hello, Mycroft!"

The addressed nearly jumped out of his skin. 

"J.. Jason," Mycroft stammered, watching with dread as Jason Alexander closed the door and turned to him. He had known they would meet again eventually but being confronted with the man he had once loved left him almost trembling with apprehension. 

They had once met at one of mummy Holmes' garden-parties and 17 year old Mycroft had been immediately enthralled by Jason's startling eyes and easy smile. They had kissed behind the pavilion and Jason had invited the younger teen to his room later on. Having realized only recently that he would never be with a woman, Mycroft had been overwhelmed such a handsome man would find him – pudgy, freckled, ginger-haired – attractive enough to kiss. That night he had sneaked into Jason's room and had been taught the first lesson of pleasure between two men.

For the duration of two years Jason played Mycroft masterfully. He used his insecurity about his looks to keep him in dependency until the redhead finally understood he had given his heart to the wrong man. Once Jason realized he had lost Mycroft, he got vicious and tried his best to destroy him. 

The blond man walked towards Mycroft, conscious of the power he held over him even after all these years. Stopping barely outside his personal space, Jason cocked his head and smiled. 

“Look at you, haven't changed a bit, have you?” From any other person this would have been a compliment but Mycroft understood the hidden meaning quite clearly. It was not without reason that he was on a constant diet and wore his suits like an armour. Still, Mycroft had learned a thing or two over the years.

“Thank you, Jason, neither have you,” he replied, for the man hadn't. If anything he was even more repulsive than he had been twenty or so years ago. 

The blond man clearly understood how the words had been meant, drawing up to his full height and taking a step forward, forcing Mycroft to retreat in order to avoid physical contact.

“The sight of you disgusts me,” Jason spat. 

Mycroft was about to ask why he was there in the first place if he was so disgusted, when he followed the taller man's line of sight and found him looking at the calendar.

“Well, well, well, isn't that a beauty you've decorated this dismal office with.”

It took all of Mycroft's willpower not to step in front of the calendar to guard Gregory's picture with his own body but Jason knew that he had found another vulnerability of the government official.  
He drew a pen-knife from his pocket and opened it.

Before Mycroft could do as much as utter a sound, the door of the office flew open and Sherlock strutted inside. Never in his life had Mycroft been more relieved to see his brother.

“I see you have a visitor,” Sherlock said, immediately summing up the situation, “but I need to talk to you in private right now.” 

The younger Holmes' glare sent Jason on his way nicely. “I'll see you soon,” he addressed Mycroft before he left. 

Sherlock locked the office-door behind the blond man and turned to his older sibling who had sunk into his chair. 

“What was he doing here?” Sherlock asked. “Didn't he move to Argentina in the 90s?”

“He did,” Mycroft confirmed. “About a month ago his father died and he came back shortly afterwards.” Passing his hand over his face, he looked at his brother and detected concern in his eyes before Sherlock managed to hide it from him. 

“Is he going to stay in London?”

“I don't know.” Mycroft shrugged. “You said you wanted to talk to me?” he asked, changing the subject he felt uneasy about.

“Never mind,” Sherlock replied and walked to the door. 

The younger Holmes had intended to enquire how Mycroft liked the picture of 'Mr June', who he knew his brother fancied but having detected the traces of curious fingers on the picture, his question had been answered already.

“Better lock the door,” he said and added on an afterthought, “and call me if he comes back,” before leaving an equally touched and befuddled Mycroft behind.

* * *

When Sherlock arrived at home that evening he declined John's suggestion for Thai take-away before he flopped down on the sofa and steepled his fingers under his chin. John could only watch his friend withdraw into his mind-palace, wondering what Sherlock was up to now. 

It took the better part of the night but eventually Sherlock knew what to do and got to work. When John came downstairs in the morning he discovered his flatmate typing at his laptop and even before the water for the tea boiled, Sherlock announced to the blond doctor that they would leave for Scotland the following morning. Then he called Greg Lestrade.

“Lestrade, John and I have to go to Scotland tomorrow. During our absence I need you to take care of Mycroft.”

“Take care of him?” Greg enquired. “Is he hurt?”

“No, he's been threatened and when the man shows up, he needs.. help.”

“It rather sounds like your brother needs a bodyguard not just help,” Greg replied.

Sherlock huffed. There were moments when even he had to acknowledge that the DI perhaps was a tiny little bit more intelligent than he gave him credit for.

“I believe your brother has people at his disposal that are better trained than I am if he needs a bodyguard.”

“This is a personal matter and Mycroft wouldn't involve anyone but his family and close friends.” That was an outright lie because unless it couldn't be helped Mycroft would involve nobody to begin with and Sherlock knew for sure that his older sibling didn't consider anyone his friend. Still, Sherlock deduced from the silence at the other end of the line that his carefully chosen words had the intended effect and so he added, “If you need to enter my brother's house, there is a keypad at the door. In order to open it you have to press the hash key and enter the numbers 3-0-0-6-6-3.” 

“What?”

“Yes, I can repeat the numbers but do pay attention. You know how I hate to repeat myself,” Sherlock complained.

“No,” Greg replied, “you don't need to repeat them.” The inspector was not nearly as smart as either Holmes but even he recognized his date of birth when he heard it. Naturally, Sherlock wouldn't know his date of birth but apparently the elder Holmes did. That Mycroft had chosen these numbers as the security code to his house, made Greg's stomach flutter. 

“I'll tell Mycroft to call you instead of me,” Sherlock said and ended the call before Greg could even come up with another question. 

For some reason Greg was suddenly very nervous about the prospect of Mycroft calling him. It was silly really because they had talked numerous times in the past. They had talked over the phone, they had talked while they had a cup of coffee or tea and they had talked while waiting in a hospital for Sherlock to wake up after an incident. He could have listed many more examples but would have been hard pressed to explain when it might have been that a call from the meanwhile very familiar man had turned from unexciting to thrilling.

The normal background noise of New Scotland Yard hardly ever interfered with his work but now he needed some peace and quiet to think this through. He closed his office-door and sat at his desk again, unaware that he was imitating Sherlock's posture when the consulting detective was deep in thought.

It didn't take long for the DI to come up with an explanation but he considered the possibility that he had at one point fallen in love with the elder Holmes rather far-fetched. A tiny voice that sounded very much like Sherlock Holmes whispered that when he had eliminated the impossible, whatever remained, however improbable, must be the truth. 

The moment the penny dropped that he had indeed fallen in love with Mycroft, two things happened at once - Greg buried his face in his hands and the phone rang. Without thinking he took the call but almost dropped the phone when a familiar soft drawl greeted him with, “good morning, inspector.”

Greg clutched the receiver like the device would try to wiggle from his grasp and run away the next moment. If Mycroft was confused because the DI's greeting sounded like he presently suffered from a heart-attack, he didn't let on. 

“Sherlock just told me he had an important case in Scotland and if I required help, I should give you a call.” Mycroft was glad they had this talk over the phone because he had actually written down a couple of sentences, hoping this memory aid would help him to master the first minute. A minute or so into the conversation he expected to have some control over his frayed nerves. 

“I know. Sherlock said he and John would leave tomorrow,” Greg said, enjoying the fact that he could use the words 'I know' in a conversation with one of the clever Holmes brothers. 

“No, I don't know where in Scotland they are going.” Belatedly Mycroft noticed that the question he had expected from Gregory and just answered hadn't been asked. 

“What?”

“Bugger!” Mycroft crumpled his memory aid.

The DI suddenly understood that Mycroft obviously was as nervous as he was, probably because a man who pulled the strings of MI5, MI6 and all other MIs that existed, was not used to ask for help. 

“Excellent,” Greg said, knowing how to reassure Mycroft. “You've already deduced and answered my next question.”

The soft hum coming from the other end of the line convinced him that the flustered man had been calmed as he had planned.

“So, what do you need me to do? Follow you around?”

“Good lord, no!” Mycroft exclaimed. “Probably you don't need to do anything. I'm leaving for Myanmar tonight. I'll be back in less than a week and Sherlock usually wraps up his cases fast. There was really no need to involve you to begin with.”

“Oh!”

A word with only two letters but the tone of voice suggested the inspector was disappointed. Very disappointed actually.

“I'm sorry, Gregory. I...” Mycroft was at a loss for words.

“No, no, it's fine. I mean, I'm glad that you aren't in danger and if you don't need me it's fine really.” Greg knew he was rambling. “And you're flying to Rangoon? Exciting. I've never been to Asia.”

“Myanmar's capitol is Naypydaw for about ten years now,” Mycroft replied, glad he could change the subject. “I fear I won't be seeing much of the country. I'll be cooped up in a hotel or the parliament building and the only chance to see something of the country will be on the rides in between.”

“That still sounds exotic.” Greg fell silent. He couldn't bring himself to hang up but didn't really know what to say, not wanting to sound like an utter moron.

“I'll return in a few days and if you are interested we could have dinner together,” Mycroft suggested. “I'm certain there is a restaurant in London that serves the countries cuisine.”

“Great!” Greg sounded happy and excited by the prospect. “While you're gone I'll see if I can find a restaurant that serves Burmese food.”

Although the term was correct, Mycroft said, “food from Myanmar,” just to wind up the DI a little.

When they finished the call, both men were smiling.

* * *

Mycroft had taken the calendar off the wall after both Jason and Sherlock had left his office at the Diogenes Club. He feared Jason would destroy his beloved picture of 'Mr June' if he got the chance and didn't rule out that the man would go as far as break into the office. He had taken the calendar home and, with the certainty that he was hopelessly doomed in his affection for the inspector, hung it in his office there before he left for Myanmar. 

When he came back five days later, Mycroft was exhausted. The diplomatic negotiations in Myanmar had required his full attention at all times and in order to make progress he had needed to hark back to every political sleight of hand he knew. 

A private jet had taken him from Naypydaw to Thailand. Before he had boarded his plane in Bangkok, he had sent a text to Gregory, told him he would be back in London the following afternoon and suggested a phone-call. 

The politician had hoped to catch a few hours of sleep during the following long flight but a couple with a toddler had for some reason chosen to fly first class and the child had kept the fellow passengers awake with a whole repertoire of shrieks. 

Mycroft was glad he hadn't invited the DI for dinner on the evening of his return, although he had been tempted. A minimum of eight hours of sleep and a very long shower was the least he required to restore himself to more than a mediocre condition. 

A cab took him home and once he had paid the driver the tired politician decided that he would give Gregory a call right after a shower and invite him for dinner the next day,

Mycroft had barely finished his shower and slipped into a casual pair of dark-green trousers and a white button-down shirt when he was startled by a knock at the door. Had he been both less tired and less preoccupied with the upcoming phone-call, he would have been more careful but in his exhaustion he opened the door to Jason Alexander.

* * *

For the better part of an hour Greg had been pacing around his living-room, slowly but surely wearing a furrow into the pile of the carpet. Until a few days ago he wouldn't have hesitated to call Mycroft but now that he was aware of the amorous feelings he harboured for the elder Holmes he questioned every single action that involved the man. It was maddening.

Via text they had agreed on a phone-call this very evening but somehow forgotten to decide who should make the call. Growling in frustration Greg tried to imagine what advice he would give his daughters in a similar situation. Probably he would tell them to call and be honest with the person in question. Making decisions was a lot easier when one wasn't directly emotionally involved.

Remembering how flustered the government official had been during their last conversation, Greg decided that there was a small chance Mycroft was as uncertain about the call as he was, so perhaps it was best to take the initiative.

Before he could change his mind, he dialled Mycroft's number. While he waited for the man to pick up, he tried to imagine what he would say. Even though he would see the caller's ID, Mycroft would answer the telephone by giving his full name. Perhaps he would add “good evening, inspector”. Greg allowed the phone to ring longer than he normally would and was about to give up, when Mycroft answered the call. 

“Hey, Greg. Glad you're calling. Look, I won't make it tonight for dinner. I just came back from Burma and I'm feeling rather exhausted.”

The DI's mouth fell open. It was Mycroft's voice but the whole torrent of words were completely out of character. He never called him Greg, they hadn't scheduled dinner this evening and after he had emphasised that the country he had visited was called Myanmar, calling it Burma now was very wrong. 

Greg was about to ask if everything was okay, when he remembered why he currently was in closer contact than usually with the politician. Mycroft had been threatened and the weird behaviour could only mean that the perp was with him and perhaps listened.

“Right,” the DI said, “I'd forgotten you were in Rangoon.” 

“Exactly,” Mycroft said and Greg thought he heard the relief in the man's voice that he had caught on. 

Greg glanced quickly at his watch. Traffic was always bad in London but he should be able to cover the distance to Mycroft's home in fifteen to twenty minutes. 

“Pick you up at home at half eight tomorrow?”

“That will be fine. Good night.”

“Great, see you then. Good night.” The DI was already heading for his car when he ended the call, hoping he would arrive indeed half past eight but twenty-four hours earlier than he had implied. 

* * *

Once Jason Alexander had shoved Mycroft brutally into the house, he had punched him in the stomach for good measure and then dragged him into the living-room. There he had ordered him to sit in one of his armchairs. Barely ten minutes had passed before the phone rang. Mycroft had told Jason that he needed to answer that call or Greg, the man who called, would come over because they had an arrangement for dinner.

When Mycroft had ended the call, he closed his eyes for a second, hoping that Jason hadn't seen through their little scheme. A hard slap against the back of his head convinced him, that the man obviously hadn't caught on.

“Who is this Greg?” Jason asked, enjoying that Mycroft awkwardly shifted away from him.

“He works with Sherlock every now and then.” 

“One of those idiots from Bart's then. I'm surprised they allow an addict inside their laboratories. Or is he your baby-brother's watchdog?”

The longer Jason talked, the more Mycroft was losing his fear. On the other hand the government official understood perfectly well that the blond man knew which buttons to push not to mention that Jason was in great physical shape and more than willing to use it to harm him. 

Not replying to the question earned Mycroft another slap to the back of his head. Jason had always enjoyed doing that. It hurt only a little but was mostly suitable to demean the person who was being slapped. 

“He is neither an idiot nor Sherlock's watchdog,” Mycroft said, knowing the latter was arguable. Something in his tone of voice must have alerted Jason to the fact that he wasn't indifferent to how people regarded Greg because the blond man's face was transfigured by a nasty grin.

“Perhaps this Greg would like to see you pose for him.”

Mycroft shrunk visibly. When he had broken up with Jason the man had eventually dug out a photo from the time they had been together. It showed a nude Mycroft who had clumsily posed for him, all features the red-head hated about his body mercilessly illuminated and immortalized on photo paper. It had been pure chance that Mycroft had managed to secure the negative but Jason had kept a copy and he had used it to humiliate him in the worst possible way.

“Talking about posing, I wonder where you're hiding the calendar I saw the other day. I know it isn't at the Diogenes Club anymore.”

Mycroft clamped his mouth shut, which obviously displeased the blond man. He slapped the back of Mycroft's head again hard before he stepped to the heavy curtains at the window and removed the tie back that held them in place. Jason grabbed Mycroft by his hair and gave a hard tug.

“Put your hands behind your back.”

Jason tied his wrists, pulling the tie back tightly enough that it stopped the blood-flow to Mycroft's hands. He used another tie back to secure his ankles to the armchair's legs, making sure his captive couldn't free himself easily. 

Patting Mycroft's cheek Jason gloated. “I'm going to find that calendar of yours but don't worry, I'll be back.” 

The blond man left the room and although Mycroft's wrists already hurt from the tight bindings, he breathed a sigh of relief. Even after so many years, Jason's verbal abuse still left him dejected and humiliated when he should be able to rise above those words. Mycroft Holmes was an intelligent and often feared man, who could send people scuttling with alarm with a single glance. Still, this spectre from his past left him petrified and incapable of reacting properly.

Pre-occupied with self-loathing, Mycroft almost missed the soft click of the living-room door but he lifted his gaze just in time to witness the arrival of his knight not in shining armour but clad in a pair of well-fitting jeans and a white, very becoming ghillie shirt.

Greg hurried over to Mycroft, brown eyes wide with concern. “Are you all right? Where is he?” he whispered, already busy untying the restraints. 

Mycroft moaned softly when the blood rushed back into his hands. “He went looking for the calendar,” he gushed out.

“A calendar?” The DI bend down to free Mycroft's ankles, certain he must have misheard. 

“Yes, a calendar,” came a voice from the door.

Greg stood up quickly to regard the man who had just entered. Thick blond hair, expensively dressed but in a different way to Mycroft. The man had money but he lacked taste. Still he was a few inches taller than he was, a bit younger too and he had lots of muscles. It wouldn't work starting fisticuffs; he'd need to be a bit more cunning to stop him.

“Greg Lestrade,” Greg introduced himself. 

“Jason Alexander,” Jason replied. Cocking his head he studied Greg for a moment before he turned the calendar for Greg to see. That is, what was left of it. “I retrieved Mycroft's beloved calendar but it had a little accident.” Jason held up some shreds that used to be the page with the month of June. “I could be wrong but this looks like you.”

Greg nodded. He gave no indication how he felt about the fact that the man had deliberately destroyed the calendar to hurt Mycroft. Also the DI ignored the embarrassment the politician radiated, for the slight traces of finger-prints on the glossy paper became obvious even when the shreds were viewed only superficially. 

He took a step forward but kept his face relaxed and emotionless. “Seems Mycroft liked the photo,” Greg said.

“Like is too weak a word,” the blond man replied, trying to decide if he had an ally or an enemy in front of him. Naturally he had recognized Greg as the policeman in the picture but he didn't know yet how he regarded Mycroft. Did he consider him like Jason did, as a submissive bastard, or something else? The picture of the calendar had been flattering but in flesh the DI was handsome enough that Jason considered he would very much like to have a go at him. 

Greg recognized the thought on the blond man's face easily. Thirty years of police-work under his belt and a regular dose of Holmesian observation revealed which actions to take. In order to help Mycroft, he had to hurt him. 

“Yes, it looks like he's somewhat infatuated,” Greg said, sending a silent 'I'm so sorry' in Mycroft's direction.

Jason's eyes began to gleam. The policeman really could be an ally.

“It looks to me we've shared the same fate.”

Greg raised his brows. “Oh?”

“Yes, many years ago he was just as infatuated with me, followed me around like a fat little puppy.”

Greg had to fight the urge to curl his fingers into fists and pummel the blond man's face, comprehending easily that the words were aimed at Mycroft's insecurity about his weight. Sherlock had teased his brother often enough but the younger Holmes' tone of voice had lacked the spite. 

“Not everybody has gracious genes like you do,” Greg told Jason, who, his ego stroked just the right way, relaxed visibly.

“Quite true.” The blond man straightened and pointed at Mycroft who had stopped removing the tie back that still bound his right ankle to the armchair's leg, his usually blue eyes almost grey from the pain he felt because of Gregory's words. 

“I've got to show you something,” Jason said and pulled out the photo of Mycroft. “It was taken when our minor government official had just turned eighteen. Like I said, fat puppy, but lacks being adorable.” He handed Greg the photo. 

“You kept the photo all those years?” Greg asked with difficulty because he clenched his teeth so tightly it almost hurt.

“I used to have another copy,” Jason told him with a broad grin. “I pinned it to the information-board at the university. Unfortunately, a professor discovered the photo and removed it before more than a handful of students had seen it.” 

“You don't have another copy then?” Feeling the hand that held the photo shake, Greg tried hard to make it sound like he wanted one for himself. 

“No,” Jason replied, “but I can get you one.” 

Greg gulped. “Actually I am quite glad I hadn't met Mycroft at that time.” The DI tried to ignore the sound of anguish coming from the man he talked about but he felt tears prickle in his eyes. “Do you know why?” 

Jason shook his head, confusion showing on his face because he sensed that something was off.

Greg walked over to Mycroft and brushed his hand through the man's hair tenderly before he looked at Jason. “I am glad I didn't meet him because I adore my two daughters and I know if I had met Mycroft at that time I would have fallen in love with him immediately. And I would never have wanted anybody else. You on the other hand don't value the trust I can see in his eyes but abused and humiliated him.”

Feeling his anger flare, Jason took a step forward. “Give me the...”

He never finished the sentence because the DI did something he had never done before; head-butting Jason in the face, efficiently breaking the man's nose.

The blond man fell down with a yell and Greg stood over him, his dark eyes blazing from the rage he felt. 

“Perhaps Mycroft holds a minor position in the government but he occupies a major position in my heart,” Greg shouted and slammed his fist to Jason's solar plexus to knock him out for good. 

Mycroft had watched and listened in stunned silence but now he bent down to remove the binding from his ankle completely and offered it to the DI.

“Gregory?”

Greg nodded. With shaking hands he took a lanyard from Mycroft and handed him the old photo in return before he bound the unconscious man's wrists. Afterwards he called the police to order Jason Alexander to be picked up and locked away. 

 

* * *

Once the man had been removed from the premises, Greg felt the last of the adrenalin leave his body. Looking at Mycroft, he saw that he had picked up the pieces of the calendar Jason had dropped at some point.

“You like the picture,” he stated, watching with slight disbelieve how the redhead gently smoothed down a dog-eared corner and placed the pieces on the table. 

“How could I not?” Mycroft replied softly. “You are looking very attractive.” Turning his head and directing his gaze at the DI, he added, “both your body and your soul are beautiful.”

Greg blushed a deep scarlet. When Mycroft turned to face him, he cleared his throat. “I meant what I said earlier,” he told the politician. “I mean that you occupy a major position in my heart.”

Mycroft lowered his gaze and shuffled his feet. “And you were partially right when you said that I am somewhat infatuated.”

“I'm sorry,” Greg apologized, “I...”

Mycroft held up his hand. “Wait. You were only partially right because,” he gulped, “because I care deeply for you, Gregory. I think it is safe to say that I'm in love with you.” 

Both men looked at each other silently when oh so slowly a radiant smile appeared on Greg's face. 

“Then maybe I am allowed to kiss you?”

The sound of Mycroft's yes was still audible when Greg pressed their mouths together. It started with a tentative touch of lips but before Greg could pull away, long, elegant fingers found their way into his hair and held him in place. Mycroft's lips parted under the exquisite pressure and then his tongue darted out, outlining first Gregory's mouth but quickly demanding entrance for a more thorough exploration. They were both melting into the kiss and clinging to each other like they would be drowning if they let go for only a moment but the need for oxygen eventually forced them apart. 

Burying his face in the nape of Gregory's neck, Mycroft was inhaling the scent of the man he had coveted for so long. He felt the DI's gentle hands caress his hair and closed his eyes in pure bliss.  
Greg could have spend an eternity kissing and holding Mycroft in his arms but then he felt him stifling a yawn against his neck. Of course, he had just come back from an undoubtedly exhausting business-trip and got assaulted shortly after he came home.

Pushing Mycroft gently away, Greg looked at the man who promptly yawned again.

“I'm terribly sorry, Gregory,” Mycroft began to apologize. 

“Don't.” Greg laughed affectionately and kissed the tip of the man's nose before he stepped back. “Let's get more comfortable. Where's your bedroom?” Greg wiggled his fingers in a fashion that convinced Mycroft the man had studied David Tennant's Doctor Who finger-wiggling quite thoroughly. Taking hold of the offered hand, Mycroft led him upstairs, where he opened a door. 

“Very nice!” Greg exclaimed when he caught sight of the large bed. Looking over at Mycroft, who looked slightly embarrassed, he squeezed his hand and pulled him in for a kiss. “If it makes you uncomfortable, I can sleep on the sofa or go home.”

“No!” Mycroft's answer came quickly and with certainty. “I'd like you to stay here. It's just been a very long time since I have shared my bed with anyone and it is entirely possible that I shall steal the duvet or crush you underneath me.”

Greg shook his head. “Look at me, Mycroft.” The intense blue eyes focussed on the DI. “Whatever Jason Alexander put in that brilliant head of yours, it has to go. You are not going to crush me or anyone with your body, okay?”

Mycroft nodded. 

Providing his guest with a t-shirt, Mycroft disappeared inside the en-suite. During summer Greg preferred to sleep in his boxers only but he understood that it was too soon to confront Mycroft with so much skin; the crux of being British.  
The politician appeared a moment later, smelling of peppermint toothpaste and clad in very flattering cotton pyjamas that consisted of dark-blue shorts and a light-blue top with short sleeves.

Greg used the bathroom and came back, wearing the t-shirt and his boxers. Mycroft was already lying in his bed, resting somewhat stiffly on his back but at least he hadn't pulled the cover up to his chin. Greg joined him under the covers.

“So, how do you normally sleep?”

“On my left side,” Mycroft replied without hesitation. He looked exhausted and as much as Greg would have loved to cuddle and maybe explore the delectable body next to him he deciding that for now he might as well catch up on much needed sleep as well. Nevertheless, first he rolled over and kissed Mycroft deeply. It was a slow kiss, full of tenderness, designed to reassure the man that he was there for him. The expression on Mycroft's face showed that he understood and after a few more minutes of kissing, they both rolled onto their preferred sleeping-sides. Greg wiggled backwards until their backs touched from shoulders to bottoms and the last he heard from Mycroft's side was a soft “thank you, Gregory” before they fell asleep.

* * *

Greg woke up in the early morning hours. The sun was already coming up and the first rays of light that were finding their way through a gap between the curtains were casting a hue of gold and copper over Mycroft's hair. During the night they had shifted around and the redhead was now resting with his cheek pressed to the DI's chest, his long limbs wrapped around the older man almost possessively. Peering thoughtfully at the relaxed face, Greg noticed that Mycroft's usually tamed hair was tousled from sleep and the curl on his forehead hung all the way over his brow. He didn't want to wake him but couldn't resist the temptation of wrapping the curl around his fingers, twisting it a little more.  
Last evening's episode had been more than unfortunate and explained why the politician usually presented himself as standoffish and wore his bespoke suits like an armour. Greg resented Jason Alexander with all his heart but without the repulsive man Greg doubted that he would have declared his feelings for Mycroft to such an extent. Who knew how long it would have taken either him or Mycroft to act upon their feelings for each other.  
Pulling the man a little closer he pressed a gentle kiss to his slightly freckled forehead and closed his eyes, ready to catch another couple hours of sleep with the man he loved in his arms.

A soft current of warm breath that was stirring his hair woke Mycroft. He remained still, assessing the odd sensation of being snuggled up to someone. For a while he listened closely to Gregory's breathing and heartbeat before concluding that he was asleep. Mycroft was certain though that the man had kissed his forehead just a moment ago. He couldn't remember the last time he had woken up being so utterly content and happy. 

Careful not to wake Gregory, he untangled himself from the DI and slipped out of the bed to use the bathroom. Passing the mirror he scrutinised himself, deciding that the silly curl on his forehead looked suspiciously like someone had tampered with it. He considered that curl looking quite ridiculous but something stopped him from pushing his hair back. Gregory had told Jason in no uncertain terms that he found Mycroft very pleasing to look at, that he liked his hair, his skin and even his shape. So for once he ignored the urge to put his hair in order, used the bathroom and went back to bed. He put his head once again onto Gregory's chest and wrapped an arm around him. Listening to the steady thump of the man's heart he quickly fell asleep again with a smile on his face, secure in the knowledge that he no longer needed to tackle his everyday life alone.

 

Epilogue

John Watson sat in the grass near Loch Ussie where he had spent the morning reading a newspaper that was a day old. Sherlock should be back soon. He had walked to a nearby pub where the owner had free Wi-Fi which meant information from the rest of the world and hopefully news from London. A week in the Scottish Highlands had been great but doing nothing but reading, hiking and killing hundreds of midges that only bit him but stayed away from Sherlock, had been long enough. 

He squinted against the bright sunlight and saw the man approaching him in a fluent, light-footed gait that relayed the message they had eagerly expected as clearly as any words. 

“So, we can go home?” he asked, before he took Sherlock's proffered hand and let himself been pulled up from the grass.

“Yes, finally,” the curly-headed consulting detective confirmed before he turned and walked towards the bed and breakfast where the two men had spent the past few days.

“And did it work?” John asked, falling easily into step with his friend.

Sherlock looked at him incredulously. “Of course it worked. It was my idea after all.”

John rolled his eyes. “Perhaps next time we don't have to travel quite as far to convince Greg to rescue your brother.”

“Since he will most likely never leave Mycroft's side again, there won't be a next time.” Sherlock watched John slapping his arm where another midge had landed in hope for a meal. “You do realize that the midge was probably pregnant.”

John's mouth fell open. “And what do you suggest? Shall I expose my hide and allow the hungry pack of midges to feed on my blood.”

“Those are swarms, John, not packs,” Sherlock corrected the doctor, who wondered if the Holmes Greg had just secured for himself was as much of a lunatic as his. 

* * *

Two weeks later Mycroft hung up an acrylic print of 'Mr. June' in his office at the Diogenes Club, for he was still very much enamoured with the picture. Almost as much as with Gregory Lestrade, whom with he kept spending more and more time. The DI had talked to the printer who then had given Mycroft a choice; either a high quality print from the month of his choice or a regular copy of the calendar. Mycroft wouldn't have spared the other models a single glance anyway and so it continued to be June 2015 in his office and in a way also at home.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments would be really lovely. ;-)


End file.
